


when it's cold (i'd like to die)

by solitariusvirtus



Series: Uncanny Westeros (Otherworlds) [13]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Reverse Chronology, Rewrite, back to basics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 15:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7647325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <br/>
    <em>It is the greatest joy of any girl when she is called into her father's presence to be informed that she will have the privilege of marrying a Prince. At least that is what the songs say.</em>
    <br/>
  </p>
</blockquote> <p>Only no one ever told Lyanna Stark that princes and maidens have graced the lines of sadder songs as well. Lone wolves are easy prey, after all.</p><p>AU! Lyanna gets just a bit more than she bargained for along with her crown of roses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when it's cold (i'd like to die)

**Author's Note:**

> Rewrite filled with cliches and what not.
> 
> Recommended listen:
> 
>  
> 
> [title song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9zZfBBp-j6I)
> 
>  
> 
> Just turn the volume low until it's background music and go wild, or whatever.

i.

Even unwavering in his decision, the King cannot tear his eyes away from the sight before him. The sight of human misery is so moving that even a heart of stone cannot remain unaffected. And no one has ever accused Rhaegar of being heartless. But this dance he must do, for the music is of his own making.

The insolent stare of the former Lord Hand is a blade to his comfort and the very breath the man draws is vexing beyond any imaginable level.

He is not a cruel man, Rhaegar knows that. But while he watches Tywin Lannister's body convulse, fighting to hold onto life, the King feels satisfaction. And it scares him in that the point should be punishment of crimes. Still, what sights parade before him have naught to do with justice; ‘tis revenge that fuels them. Rhaegar keeps his eyes on the dying man, not once moving as much as an inch.

At least Lyanna may be spared the sight. But that comfort is paltry when thinking that this ghost shall visit him in the late hours of the night. His jaw twitches minutely and Rhaegar hardens his glare. The gods should have struck the lion down themselves if they'd wanted his death to be gentles.

Nay, the King has no mercy to offer.

ii.

Baelor's Sept is filled to the brim. The High Septon has already ascended the steps. And every single individual is waiting with baited breath for the realm's latest hero. For this occasion even a few representatives of the peasantry have been allowed entrance and they are seated behind nobles. These are people to whom the realm owes its safety, these are people to whom the King owes his crown.

They come together, the King and Queen, a pair of muted sorrow in the house of smoke and mirrors. Rhaegar leads Lyanna gently down the isle, and she leans on him, not heavily, but enough to make her presence felt. This is no girl he has on his arm. This is a woman.

Kneeling before the sacred Star, Rhaegar stares absently at the gold gleaming in the warm light of the sun. He feels the oils sliding in his hair and the crown touching his head, a circle of gold to bind him to the throne.

 Lyanna remains kneeling after he no longer does so. The High Septon is blessing her and he is about to crown her as well, but Rhaegar takes the circlet from his hands and slides it himself atop her unveiled hair. He hold his hand out. And then her own is in his.

"Long live the King! Long live the Queen!" rings out from all around them.

iii.

The fever breaks in the end, as is natural, leaving behind a weakened creature who has long run out of tears to cry. Rhaegar brushes her hair back carefully, pressing his lips to her forehead. Her skin doesn't scorch him this time. Lyanna tries to pull away, but his arms have already secured her. He can feel the reticence, almost tangible. It is as if she is building a wall between them, keeping herself apart from him, keeping them separated.

"Do you, mayhap, blame me?" The mere thought of it hurts. He doesn't want to be apart from her. But if she does blame him, she is right. He should have come sooner.

His wife's eyes narrow. "I blame you?" Her face betrays nothing. She'd been an open book when he left. Now he cannot even see a step before his eyes where she is concerned. "I do not blame you." Her small hand has clenched itself into his tunic and the material grows taut with the pull. "I am merely thinking about the future."

Ah, 'tis clear enough. Rhaegar's expression grows dark. "Put that nonsense out of your mind."

"But-" she begins, no doubt led by the very best of intentions. The nature of the beast, he tells himself.

"I will never." He feels the fight flowing out of her. He wonders if this is a battle or a war he fights. What has he won?

iv.

Pycelle is about as useless as water at a wedding feast and Rhaegar is just near ready to snap and show all these people who have crowded his wife's chambers the temper his house is famed for. It takes a few impatient gestures and one or two sharp glares, but they appear to understand him, though Pycelle fumbles with the medicines a little too long for Rhaegar’s liking.

Lyanna lies still, waxen and wan, her haunting eyes burning strangely under the effects of he ailment. But she lives and that is what really matters. Maester Luwin is the quiet shadow that slips into the chamber, carrying with him but a small skin filled with milk of the poppy. Rhaegar simply nods at the man and returns to his seat by the lancet.

"There will be other children, Your Majesty," the maester will tell him later, after Lyanna has fallen asleep. "Despite the brutality of the treatment, she should be able to conceive again, provided that her marital duties are postponed for some time yet."

He draws in a shaky breath and thanks whatever deities are listening.

It is to her bed that he takes, just to hold her. There is this worrisome need in him to have her close, safely sleeping before his eyes.

v.

Rhaegar sees Lyanna go down and for a moment his heart stops. But then Jaime Lannister – out of all those in the throne room; the sheer irony – puts himself between Lyanna and the danger of arrows and swords. Perhaps there is less of the traitorous father in the son.

Abandoning all thoughts of Jaime, Rhaegar focuses his attention on a roaring Robert Baratheon. He dodges the sword coming towards him and catches an opening, enough for the tip of lance to cut through doublet and tunic, into flesh. His enemy is incensed. Robert is a strong man, but he is relying merely on brute force, so unlike the good warrior Rhaegar knows he is.

But Robert acting foolishly is not something Rhaegar will protest to. It makes the fight easier to win. His muscles tense in anticipation, hand wrapping strongly around the lance. He raises the weapon and thrusts it downward, catching Robert. His wide eyes are only worth a moment’s consideration.

Arthur Dayne takes the fight from his hands. Rhaegar rushes to Lyanna's side, taking off his helm. By the time he reaches her, she is keeping company with her dead protector. Unburdening her, he kneels by her side and grips the arrow piercing her palm. Lyanna looks at him with wide eyes.

He should offer her encouraging words but all he can manage is a chocked sound somewhere between agony and happiness. And then he pulls the arrow from her skin. Her bloodied palm touches his face, cracked lips on his.

The world has stopped turning.

vi.

There is blood on her fingers, running down her dress, soaking into her skin, miring her sanity. Lyanna's throat burns with exertion and she can feel her flesh rip. The gold of her knight's hair is the only thing she sees. There are sounds, of course. The cries of battle and the shrieks of terror and the voices of the concerned, they all mingle together.

Then there are the faint words of Jaime Lannister – possibly his last – and they still ring in her ears. She doesn't think she has ever been more grateful to anyone in her entire life. He is dying, life bleeding out of him. The shock of the realisation makes Lyanna glance down to the gaping wounds. "Why?" the question leaves her lips.

"I always wanted to be a hero." The words are in jest but the sentiment behind them is not. He'll die like this for his wish. How cruel. "They'll write songs about me." This reflection holds an edge of bitterness that Lyanna cannot push past.

She is crushed under his weight, both of them forgotten in the sea of warriors. His eyes dull and his breath no longer touches her cheek.

Jaime Lannister is lifted off of her and she meets the gaze she has been dreaming about all this time.

vii.

The heavy doors fly open and a swarm of peasants, knights and riders alike floods the premises. In their midst the tall frame clad in black armour sits atop a horse, lance at the ready. This is slaughter, nothing more and nothing less. Swords slash left and right without discrimination. Sharp edges cut into whatever they find and then the arrows are knocked loose. One sails past Lyanna, embedding into one of the guards at her back.

Most unexpected, Jaime Lannister jumps in front of her, acting as her human shield. She wants to tell him that she is not afraid of dying, but one of the arrows pierces his shoulder and her eyes widen in disbelief. She wraps an arm around him mostly out of habit, to hold him upright. It seems she is afraid of death after all.

"I promised," Jaime tells her as another arrow hits him. "I promised." And the next arrow pierces Lyanna's hand, passing through her palm to embed itself in Jaime's skin. Jaime doesn't seem to notice though. He is busy remembering that promise which Lyanna knows nothing about. He sags over her, knocking them both to the ground. Some may even argue they are safer for it.

viii.

Robert comes for her, as the Lord Hand has said. But he does not find the spirited child he thought would make him a good wife. In the place of that Lyanna stands another creature, infinitely darker in nature. The innocence is gone from her eyes.

"I will never wed you," she tells him even before he opens his mouth. Robert makes to step towards her, but Lyanna flattens her back against the wall and hisses like a cornered animal. Her eyes spark with hatred. "Never, never, never," she repeats that 'never' in an almost obsessive manner.

"You will die if you don't." There is genuine fear in his voice. He cannot conceive that a woman might prefer death to him.

"Never," Lyanna repeats resolutely.

He tries again, but she is implacable. In the end Robert is forced to present to Tywin his failure. The Lion looks up from the papers he had been inspecting. "Then take her with you when the trial is over. In your home you may do as you wish with her."

The trial is a necessity, Robert understand that. All nobles have gathered in King's Landing after the disappearance of Prince Rhaegar on the Trident. Robert curses the ill luck that prevented him from fighting his bitter rival.

ix.

They pull her to her feet and drag the wood comb through her hair, pulling and ripping through the tangles. Lyanna doesn't even have enough energy to protest at the treatment. In fact, her eyes focus on a point far above her and she hides behind the walls she hadn't known she could raise.

A dress of roughspun adorns her and they mockingly tease at the lack of crowning flowers, offering her insult instead. They bring her before the – former, she wonders – Lord Hand. Tywin Lannister gives her one look with his impassive eyes, nods towards the guards that have dragged up all the way here and they let her go.

For a moment Lyanna thinks she will fall, but her legs do not give way. Yet her eyes are ever vacant. "Robert Baratheon has agreed to take you in, my lady, so it has been ruled that despite your crimes mercy shall be granted. You are, however, never permitted to step foot into King's Landing again after exchanging vows."

The seed of hatred burns within her and Lyanna almost laughs. As if it really matters what becomes of her now. But she doesn't. Instead her eyes glance resignedly at the high ceiling and she concentrates on breathing.

x.

The contents of her stomach resting on the floor, the young Princess screams out in pain as the foot connects with her protruding middle once again. The bones in her fingers crack under the pressure. Something wet slides against her legs, gliding over the inside of her thighs and onto the ground. Mortification turns into horror when she sees a pool of red slow to form. She had hoped it would be her bladder misbehaving.

It seems like object has been reached because the blows stop and she is left to admire the result. And then the burning begins. Her stomach turns again and she strains under the need to heave, but her stomach is empty and she only manages to choke on it. Hands pull at her, pinching and scratching as the cloth gives way and rips.

"Hold still," a wizened voice hisses as her legs are forced apart. It's too early. Much too early. But no one cares for her yelling and pleading. They stop her screams. And her insides twist and burn, the strong scent of vinegar filling her nostrils. "That ought to clean you."

They are speaking now.

Lyanna can barely even make out a word they say. It doesn't really matter.

xi.

The sword slices through the King's skin and his burning eyes widen in recognition. Lyanna has a hand pressed to her mouth to keep from screaming. The other cradles her rounded middle in an attempt to protect. Oh, but she can taste death on her lips. Jonothor Darry is trying to pull her away as Lewyn Martell clears a path through the throng of Lannister soldiers.

But they are stopped by a mountain of a man. Ser Jonothor lets her go for a brief moment to engage in battle as Prince Lewyn is knocked to the ground. It is enough to have some other soldiers make a grab for her. Lyanna can struggle all she likes. They are stronger than her.

When she is about to use a trick and hope for the best, Ser Jonathor is speared through by the Mountain and Prince Lewyn does not fare better. Pangs of fear slam into her for she can recognise what she sees in the brute's face.

However, he seems to shake off the bloodlust enough to remember something. "Lock her away," he finally says, a sneer on his face. A soldier always follows orders apparently.

As she passes Ser Jaime, she throws him a withering look.

What about his duty?

xii.

The madman will kill them all, Lyanna realises as dread pools low in her belly. And no one is doing anything. They will all submit like lambs because he is the King. He mutters about fire and being reborn from the ash and something dark clouds Lyanna's mind for a brief few seconds.

A soldier reports that the Lord Hand is come with an army. Most of the souls in the keep give a collective breath of relief. Tywin Lannister will talk the King out of this mad scheme. Lyanna regards this intervention with slightly more suspicion. She turns her back on the King and the throne to address a few words to Ser Jonathor. Fatigues as she is and scared, she thinks it may be better to hide in her rooms for some time.

A loud shout erupts from somewhere behind her and Lyanna whirls around, the mourning veil twisting around her. She sees the glint of steel shining in the weak light, she sees the sword coming down and she hears the surprised intake of breath.

The whole world seems to freeze, all faces watching in shock and terror as the scene unfolds before them.

Outside a cheer is heard. It chills Lyanna to her very bones.

xiii.

The Queen departs, tears in her eyes. She barely says a thing to the wife of her son. Instead she gathers her youngest child to her chest and they board the wheelhouse. Lyanna stands with the other women in the Queen's service. She feels numb, too numb to care that the little Prince is throwing a temper tantrum or that the Queen sports new bruises. She can think of little but the tragedy that eats at her soul.

It would have been better had she died, Lyanna reckons. It would have been easier. Her wounded soul howls out in agony and her hands press over her gently rounded stomach. Queen Rhaella slides the curtain just enough to beckon Lyanna closer. The Princess takes the few steps and leans slightly in. But the Queen has no words. She pressed a handkerchief into her palms and the curtain falls back in its place.

Lyanna steps away and watches them depart. When in her chamber she opens the piece of cloth and tears flood her. A thick long silver strand of curling hair greets her vision. She presses it to her lips and nose, searching for familiarity. She can find none that pleases her. The Princess cries bitter tears.

She has nothing left to give when news comes of the Queen and the Prince's capture.

xiv.

They have been in the solar for the best part of the day, the Queen sewing, Lyanna trying to write. She has been composing a letter to her family, asking for more men, more support, more anything. She doesn't know what else to ask of them. She has no right to ask more of them.

Prince Viserys runs circles around his mother's chair, blissfully unaware of the ugliness of the world. The Queen tells him something, which he ignores, thus breaking Lyanna's concentration. She looks up from her letter with a sigh. Failure may not be an option, but she cannot think of one word to write at the moment.

One of the Queen's women comes in, her face white as milk. Lyanna stands to her feet as the other woman bows. She wrings her hands nervously. "Begging your pardons, Your Majesty and Your Grace. The Prince has fallen."

For a moment both Lyanna and the Queen are speechless. It is Rhaella who understands first, a mother's prerogative, Lyanna will think later. She falls from the chair into a crumpled heap, a shrill wail leaving her lips.

"Oh," Lyanna manages. "Oh!" the second one comes more painful, more conscious, more devastated. She surprises even herself with fainting.

Later they will bring her a mourning veil and the news that she is with child.

xv.

The King has locked himself away from prying eyes, supposedly to search for a solution to the problems plaguing the realm. Lyanna tries not to notice that one lord or another, one man or another is missing. Their numbers have been dwindling. And she worries. Lyanna kneels next to the rosebush and fingers the light coloured petals. They are very pretty, but they cannot drive the melancholy from her soul.

Rhaegar has not replied to her letter. Presumably, he is fighting. There is hardly time to write during a battle, Lyanna knows. But, surely, they do not fight day and night. A word will suffice. Just a sign that he yet lives and she may expect him to come back. It may sound selfish, but she does not care for much beside him. There is her family, of course, but they are wolves, the pack survives even through the harshest winter.

She wonders when the war will be over. If summer comes before that, it might be that the little Prince will wed Lady Cersei. That should help with the war effort. The Lannisters will be bound to offer their aid once the contract is signed.

But so far, Tywin Lannister has not replied a word to the King's proposal.

xvi.

Rhaegar has donned his magnificent black steel armour, adorned with rubies. He rides the same horse he rode at the tourney, his favourite, Lyanna knows. The Kingsguards that leave with him are all wear white, the contrast strong enough to impress the whole court that has come to see them off.

As the wife of the Prince, Lyanna has a privileged place; to see all the better what she is losing. She stands next to the King and Queen, Prince Viserys tugging on her skirts lightly. She holds the boy's hand and they watch together as the horses are made ready for the march. The heir to the throne looks up, his face hidden behind the helm. Lyanna fancies she can feel his eyes on her, though it would be impossible to tell where he is looking as the helm obstructs her view of his face.

Discreetly, she presses a hand to her heart and hopes that he catches the motion. Rhaegar lowers his head in one last salute before his heels press into the horse's flanks and the rest of the men follow his lead. King's Landing is noisy with cheers for the departing army, wishes of good-luck and a speedy return.

A trail of dust and smoke is all that remains behind them.

xvii.

The bed groans under the additional weight and Lyanna opens tired eyes to the feeling of hands sliding against her skin. She murmurs something incoherent and turns to press fully into the warmth that embraces her. Silver tendrils tickle her cheek and she lets out an involuntary giggle. There is no way she may pretend to be asleep now.

Opening her eyes fully, she glances at the face of her husband; the kind, sad face of her husband. "What brings you here, Your Grace?" she asks, trying for playfulness. She isn't sure if she has any success though. Rhaegar shows so very little of himself.

Her husband kisses her lips gently, grabbing at the hem of her shift and pulling it upwards. Lyanna lets her head fall back against the pillows with a groan. Rhaegar trails kisses down the column of her neck and the cool metal of his ring sends a shock of gooseflesh over her skin.

This is the last night for some time, Lyanna tells herself as her body gives in to his and she shudders lightly as they come together. She tangles her fingers in his hair and gives in to passion and desire. The confession remains unspoken on her lips.

xviii.

The Princess knows she loves the Prince. The realisation comes late one day as they sit before the fire, warming themselves. Rhaegar is playing something on his high harp, the sweet melody filling every nook and cranny of the chamber. Lyanna is fiddling absently with the one of rubies that hangs off her choker.

They are both consciously avoiding the subject which is the most spoken of at the moment. Lyanna cannot bear to think of the war that is to come, not because she fears it. Oh, she knows – or thinks she does, anyway – the horrors of war. She has heard enough stories. But it is still a distant thing in her mind, a mere tale, like the snarks and grumkins that used to roam her night terrors when she was just a child.

Nay, this refusal to speak has more to do with the current peace of the atmosphere. There will be time for anxiety on the morrow. For the time being Lyanna plans to enjoy the song her husband so skilfully brings to life. Her breath catches lightly.

There is a certain strange quality to her husband's art that brings out tender feelings from within her. Lyanna gives him a tremulous smile.

xix.

Aerys slams his fist against the table. Lyanna pretends not to notice, it is safer. She keeps her eyes glued to the scroll she is holding. She is standing behind a tall row of manuscripts and scrolls and bound books. If she moves, they might see her.

"It is to be war then?" Rhaegar is asking, his voice pained. He does not wish to fight. Lyanna closes her eyes and bites back the urge to smile. Aerys is itching for a fight; he won't let the chance pass him by. "Surely there is another way, Your Majesty," the Prince insists.

"Enough." Something like anger tinges the King's voice. "Find that wife of yours and have her write to her father. After all, she too will need protection." Cold dread squeezes her heart. Lyanna lifts her head ever so slightly. She can read the threat clearly. She will have the letter written by the end of the day.

"She is my wife," Rhaegar speaks then. There is none of his usual softness there. Instead she detects a more elusive obstinacy in his tone.

"Then see to her safety," the King replies. His threat remains.

Lyanna waits until the door has closed before she slips out of her hiding spot. Her husband gives her an apologetic look. As if she would ever think to blame him for another’s madness.

xx.

For some months there is little to worry Lyanna. She finds the marriage much to her liking. The Prince is kind and gentle, but engaging nonetheless. And passionate. He is that too, when it suits him. The apparent contrariety between the calm exterior and that hidden enthusiasm makes it seem like a secret. It is all the more delicious for that.

Rhaegar shows her the letters he has been exchanging with the Maester at the Wall. "And you believe that we could be the parents to this saviour." Her guess is not far off. There is some evidence to that and Rhaegar is quite skilful in presenting it.

Lyanna regards him with raised eyebrows. She will have to give him children, of course, and she is quite prepared to. But she is not as sure as he that she will be fulfilling a prophecy. "I suppose," she says in the end, shrugging her shoulders. "It never hurts to try." Prophecy or no prophecy, her marriage is pleasant and she finds joy in it. For Lyanna it is slightly more important than the words of an old man.

If she is lucky, of course, and her husband is right, she'll be a nice song one day.

And then comes news of trouble.

xxi.

Somewhat fearful of what is to come, Lyanna does not attempt to push past her maidenly shyness. She is not well pleased with the stares or the vulgar words, but she plays her part, because it is expected and she means to be flawless. Barbrey has assured her that men like nothing better than to think they are teaching their women something – to which Lyanna can only agree, when thinking of the striking example her brothers set.

The important thing to remember, according to Barbrey – who is, strangely enough, a well of knowledge in such matters – is that whatever pain she feels it will fade. Her friend is adamant that she not be too frightened by the ache. Lyanna rolls her eyes. Had Barbrey been more courteous and answered more of her questions, she wouldn't be quite so jumpy now.

Sacrificing whatever attention she has left to the door, Lyanna breathes in relief when the Prince enters. Of course, her curiosity of the male form is not to be indulged in, it's too dark for that. She finds herself half hoping that Rhaegar won't injure himself when crossing the room.

"What amuses you, my lady?" comes his voice out of nowhere.

Lyanna blushes to realise she had expressed her amusement out loud.

xxii.

There are singers and fools and food and drink. Lyanna thinks she might be ill if she has to swallow one more morsel. On the other hand, she might faint if she doesn't eat anything. It must be the nerves. She chews slowly on her food and studiously avoids looking at the Prince.

It is ridiculous. Of course it is. But Lyanna dares not lift her eyes. She might babble something embarrassing back at him. And where would that leave her? She doesn't want him to think her a child, after all.

"My lady, would you care to dance?" Rhaegar asks, his head leaning slightly towards her.

Lyanna looks up, mildly surprised. She manages a smile and an answer. "I should like that." And then she congratulates herself, because this is a victory. Somehow, talking to Rhaegar had been easier when she'd been a child.

He seems much at ease, and she wonders how he does it. All that her mind can conjure are dreaded images of the bedding ritual.

When they yells for bedding do come, she is resigned. But then again, Barbrey has helped her with the quips she is to deliver to those who think they are welcomed to be insolent to the bride.

xxiii.

It is very soon that she is sent to King's Landing. She is not yet six and ten and the wheelhouse is prepared for her. Dresses and books have been packed up, along with jewellery and brushes and pretty memories. Lyanna tries to hold back tears and winces as the hot salty drops slide down her cheeks.

Her father brushes them away, pride shining in his eyes. He even tells her about how proud he is and that she has elevated them all beyond all expectations. Lyanna feel the praise is unmerited. She has done nothing, after all, but accept a crown of winter roses on a nice, sunny day. Still, she refrains form telling that to her father. He is entirely too gleeful though.

Brandon mutters something about her being too young to leave on her own, to which she promptly replies that he should mind his own affairs. "I do not need you to take care of me," she informs her eldest brother sharply, as she presses a kiss to Ned's cheek. After that she proceeds to cut off Benjen's air supply with a too tight hug.

Her journey starts with good cheer and four males bent on seeing to it that not even the breeze touches her.

xxiv.

She is a girl of two and ten when the missive from the King comes. It seems that the marriage can no longer wait. Given the bride's young age and the fact that she is not yet flowered, it has been decided that the Prince and Lady Stark should be wedded by proxy. With this understanding, a certain Jeyne Norrey is to depart for King's Landing. And so it happens.

A short few years later, a now flowered Lyanna is required to attend the tourney held by the King for his younger son's nameday. There, she is given the honour of seeing her husband for the second time in her life. And she also receives the title of Queen of Love and Beauty from the same man, her husband that is, subsequently to him knocking Ser Dayne off his horse.

There is little reason for further delay, that is the general consensus between the parents when they see the children just about besotted with one another. Rickard is glad to have been honoured so by the Royal House and the Targaryens are only too glad to have foiled Lord Lannister's matrimonial plans for his daughter – though no one knows about this second issue.

xxv.

It is the greatest joy of any girl when she is called into her father's presence to be informed that she will have the privilege of marrying a Prince. At least that is what the songs say. Lyanna considers her father's words carefully. She is one and ten and not ignorant in the way of politics.

Despite the fact that much may be gained by such an alliance, Lyanna opts to reserve her opinion for that time when she meets her prospective husband. The promise she makes to herself is as follows: should she not like him, she will mortify him to the highest degree and convince him to quit her.

Fate, however, has a different plan. It always falls to the young heart to be mesmerised by beauty and further taken in by kindness. Lyanna needs only look into the eyes of the young Prince and she knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that love has slain her. And as she bleeds emotion and the beginning of affection, the Prince gives her a smile and an inclination of the head before he even acknowledges anyone else.

Later he will tell her that she was the reason for his coming up North, that she is always the reason.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Writer's block sucks. That's my excuse.


End file.
